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“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that I kind of have this vague memory of tattooing you that night. Or some night.”
I swallowed heavily.
“I must not have because all you have are these little dove wings right…” Mason wriggled his fingers between us to tap the small of my back, “…here.”
“How do you know that wasn’t you?” I asked.
Mason nuzzled his chin into the crook of my neck.
“Well, it’s not exactly my style, though that’s not it.”
“What is it then?”
He inhaled the scent of my shampoo as I waited eagerly for his response.
“I don’t know,” he said. “They’re not you. And…well, I think, at least for a brief moment in time, I really knew you, Rachel.”
I didn’t say anything in response. I just blinked the tear from my eye so it soaked the pillow and not Mason’s hand tucked up with mine beneath my chin.
“Hey, so what happened with Elvis and the Eiffel Tower?” Mason asked long after I thought he’d fallen asleep.
I laughed.
“Oh, we ran,” I told him. “Ran like the devil himself was after us.”
Two true things that night.
